


Easy As Breathing

by electricteatime



Category: Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency (TV 2016)
Genre: Boys In Love, Brotzly - Freeform, Drabble, Happy, M/M, more experimental than usual, vaguely poetic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-04
Updated: 2018-05-04
Packaged: 2019-05-01 22:41:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14530860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/electricteatime/pseuds/electricteatime
Summary: Their days start together. Warm and close, but all elbows and knees, tangled in covers and noses buried into hair. It takes time to swim up through the pull of sleep to break the surface, but when they come to they wake up to each other.





	Easy As Breathing

**Author's Note:**

> Some of you wanted me to post more of my poeticy-pretentiousy-experimental bullshit type stuff after Mouth to Mouth and I said I would share some with you so here it is. 
> 
> I tend to write these things as exercises, or just to keep myself actually writing between ideas to keep the writers block away, and I never really share them because I'm never sure how they'll be received but the last one went down well and you asked for more so have this one. 
> 
> It's not been beta'd so feel free to pick me up on errors and otherwise I hope you enjoy!

Their days start together. Warm and close, but all elbows and knees, tangled in covers and noses buried into hair. It takes time to swim up through the pull of sleep to break the surface, but when they come to they wake up to each other. Bleary eyes and soft smiles, sighing at the thought of leaving the space they have on their own little island. Hands tightening on arms when someone tries to move as if to say ‘not yet’, ‘one more minute’, ‘just stay here with me’. Relaxing back into the comfort of the other as they pull each other closer in response, because saying no was never going to be an option. 

Breakfast is a state of affairs. Slow days mean sipping at tea, at coffee, trying to wake themselves into something more human, pressed together shoulder to knee as they read their way through the news or stare at the wall and hum every now and then to show they’re listening. Other days it’s pancakes, and the kitchen has never seen such a mess. More batter on the floor and the walls and in their hair, dotted on noses and smeared on cheeks than ever makes it into the pan. Flour dusting the room like a crime scene, broken eggs and spilled milk between bouts of laughter, stopping for a kiss and setting off the smoke alarm. The ones that survive are drowned in sugar and shared with only mild complaining. Arguing over who has to clean only to do it together. On busy days they’re lucky to grab a slice of toast on the way out of the door, sometimes even less than that, on those days breakfast is whatever they can pick up at the first chance they get to stop. Making sure the other eats _something_ at least. It’s glaring when _someone_ thinks it’s a good idea to share said breakfast with a bird, and that bird comes back with ten friends for dessert. It’s laughter turning to tears at the sight of the ensuing battle to try and keep them away. It’s kissing away the sting of losing the fight, holding hands and walking away. 

Days can be soft and quiet. Curled up on the couch with blankets and re-runs, not bothering to get dressed. Sitting in the window and watching the trees. Playing games on phones and trying to one up each other. Trying and failing at starting to do paperwork, finding much more interesting things to do with their time, with their mouths, with their hands. Days are usually erratic, getting into and out of trouble without even trying. Dropped straight into messes and attempting to make sense of it, following threads that lead to nowhere and back round again. Days are trying to help and ending up running for a good few blocks, hands wrapped around wrists and panting for breath, ears straining to check they’ve lost their pursuers. Days are rarely mundane, rarely unsurprising, always new and exciting and always _always_ fun no matter what happens. Always done together, side by side or trailing behind. Pushing and pulling and holding on. Gripping a little too tight until the worst is over, pressing together for reassurance when it seems like it might never stop. 

Then there’s everything in between the craziness. The moments of _them_ condensed down into the smallest interactions, all the ways they exist around each other. 

It’s: “Do you think trees have feelings?”

It’s: “The Spice Girls are _not_ the most revolutionary band since The Beatles.”

It’s: “Ooh, what does this do?”

It’s: “God, what the hell was his problem?”

It’s: “That one looks like a dinosaur.”

It’s: “Don’t touch that!” 

It’s: “I know I said this about the last one, but this one is _definitely_ our guy.”

It’s: “That is _not_ a word.”

It’s eyes rolled in fondness, in exasperation, in surrender. It’s heads shaken in disbelief, in disagreement, in reluctant amusement. It’s smiles, bright and wide, small and soft, secret and hidden. It’s being shoved away only to be pulled back in. Whispering with heads together, shouting indignantly, gesturing wilding. Pointing at clouds and stars and objects that look like they have faces. It’s gentle touches to shoulders and cheeks, to backs and sides and fingers brushed through hair. Hands wrapped around wrists, bumping hips, fingers interlocked and swaying between them as they walk.

It’s stumbling back up the stairs to the place that is _theirs_ , a place that means they’re never alone. It’s fumbling with the door handle because someone is hurt, or they’re too tired, or they’ve had too much to drink, or they’re too lost in each other to look properly. It’s falling through the other side, closing the door to the feeling of safety. The feeling of permanence. The feeling of warmth and happiness and hope, the promise of sleep and comfort and rest. The feeling of home. 

Coming back is stripping off clothes, or falling into bed fully dressed. It’s showering off the day together, or alone for the space and the quiet. It’s decaf and chamomile, trying to stay awake, stifling yawns behind hands and eyelids feeling heavy. It’s crawling under the covers, curling up close and wrapping around each other. It’s the feeling of another heartbeat, of soft breaths across skin and ruffling hair. Yelping when cold feet are pressed to shins with apologetic kisses to follow. The comfort and heat of another person, the safety of being held close enough to keep the nightmares at bay. It’s pet names and soft reassurances, nuzzling noses into the space where necks meet shoulders. 

It’s: “I love you.”

It’s: “I love you too.”

It’s drifting off safe in the knowledge that whatever comes the next day, the next month, the next year, every sunrise they live to see will be faced together. 

It’s knowing that everything they need can be found in each other. 

It’s seeing the other across from themselves, wherever they are, and thinking _home_.

**Author's Note:**

> So there's that. I feel like this one had a little more structure than the last, but I don't think I'm as happy with it. 
> 
> I am currently accepting prompts over at kieren-fucking-walker.tumblr.com but make no guarantee they will be filled (I'm a human disaster.)
> 
> Please let me know if you liked this. Or hated it even! All comments are good comments and I'm particularly interested in hearing what you think about this type of stuff. Do you want more? Less? Can you tell I'm a poet at heart? Am I being too pretentious and you want me to stop? Hit the comments!
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
